


A Certain Smile VI

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-14
Updated: 2001-04-14
Packaged: 2018-11-10 06:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11121669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: This is a follow up to (duh!) A Certain Smile V.  Guess who's coming to dinner?





	A Certain Smile VI

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

A Certain Smile VI

## A Certain Smile VI

by Alison

Author's Website: http://uk.geocities.com/asylum_girluk/utopia.htm

Disclaimer: 

Author's Notes: All for Sarah.

Story Notes: 

* * *

"Some people, as far as your senses are concerned, just feel like home." 

**A CERTAIN SMILE VI**

"Frase! Fraser, wake up!" Ray's voice takes on a whining tone. "Oh, come _on_ Frase. You're not even asleep, not really." 

Well, quite frankly, who could sleep through the amount of noise Ray makes when he's awake? It's one of his less endearing qualities, this need to share his own inability to sleep with everyone around him. 

"What's the matter, Ray?" I ask finally, giving up my pretence and opening my eyes. The room is gloomy, the pre-dawn light just beginning to chase away the shadows. I would estimate it to be no more than 4am; a time Ray wouldn't even admit exists under normal circumstances. 

"Oh, hi," he says, smiling at me. "You awake?" 

I mock-glare at him and turn on my side so that we're facing each other, nose to nose. 

"No, I'm not," I say. "I'm fast asleep and dreaming." 

"Dreaming about me?" he asks, still smiling, moving slightly and rubbing his nose against mine. "What am I doing?" 

"Nothing good," I reply. 

"Aren't we grumpy this morning?" Ray leans back and looks at me, his eyes bright with laughter. "Is Mr Perfect just a little bit cross?" 

With a sudden movement, he's on me, and I let his weight push me backwards until I'm flat on my back, looking up at him as he makes himself comfortable on my body. 

"Why are you so cheerful, anyway?" I ask, resting one of my hands on his hip, while running the fingers of my other hand up his spine, making him shiver. "You're not usually conscious at this time of day, never mind chatty." 

"Why shouldn't I be cheerful?" He rests his head on my shoulder, close enough for me to be able to feel his breath on my ear. "It's the weekend, I got two days off, you got two days off, we don't got anything to do `cept stay in bed and take advantage of each other." He shifts position slightly and begins to lick his way carefully around the outside of my ear. "So, do you wanna start now?" 

"Nice as that would be," I say, tilting my head to give him easier access, "You seem to have forgotten that Turnbull is coming to dinner tonight." 

He stops licking and lets his head drop back onto my shoulder. I run my fingers up his spine for a final time, and then rest my hand on the back of his head, holding him still. 

"What are we gonna talk about?" he says, his voice muffled. "I mean, I know you and him can just blabber on about curling or something, but you know, what happens in those awkward silences? I don't know anything about the guy! Do you?" 

"Well, now you mention it, no," I reply. "I could always go and have a look in his file at the Consulate, and we could write the pertinent facts on pieces of paper, leave them lying around the apartment..." 

He lifts his head and stares at me. "You are a strange, strange man," he says, rolling off me and lying on his back, gazing at the ceiling. 

"It's been said before," I agree mildly, shifting back onto my side and resting a hand on his stomach, loving the play of his muscles underneath my palm. 

"Yeah, by me," he says, smiling at the ceiling, and reaching down to place his hand over mine. 

"I've said it before, Ray, you're a very astute man." I lean forward and kiss his shoulder, trailing my tongue down his chest, and following the line of fine hair on his stomach. When I come to our joined hands, I stop and nibble on the very tip of his forefinger. He laughs and flinches, pulling away. I put my head on his stomach. 

"You can't help it, can you?" he says. "You see something and you have to put it in your mouth." He pauses and strokes my nose with that tempting forefinger. "Of course, this can be a _good_ thing," he adds thoughtfully. 

"So, Turnbull," I say casually, pulling away from his hand before his finger takes out an eye. "We have to feed him." 

"What does he like?" asks Ray. "Please don't let it be something disgusting like - oh, I dunno - raw fish." 

"Sushi is very good for the heart, Ray," I protest. 

"I don't care, Frase," he says. "It's foul, disgusting and pretty damn revolting as well. Fish are good for two things; swimming and -," he stops and his hand idly moves up to play with my hair. 

"And?" I ask eventually. 

"Oh, I lied about the second thing." He pulls my hair and I raise my head to look at him. "C'mere," he says, and I obey. 

"What?" I ask when I'm lying half on him, half on the mattress. He smiles and shakes his head. 

"Nothin'," he says. "I just wanted to look." 

"And do you like what you see?" I ask. 

He pulls back slightly, wrinkling his nose. "Well," he says consideringly. "You're getting some lines there, and your hair's not as thick as it used to be..." He moves one of his hands from my hair and cups my chin. "You look pretty damn good to me." 

As I reach down to kiss him, I feel his hand slide down my back, stroking over my buttocks before coming to rest against my hip. He pushes at me until I'm on my side and then fits himself against me, chest to chest, hip to hip. Smiling in a way best described as feral, he moves his hand from my hip and slides it between our bodies, cupping my semi hard cock. My breath catches in my throat, and he kisses me hard, tongue lazily weaving its magic in my mouth. 

"And a good morning to you, Constable," he mutters, finally releasing my mouth. 

* * *

Shopping with Ray is always an experience. A long time ago I gave up trying to understand if he has any kind of system. If he does, it's his own, patented, `throw it in the basket and we'll see if we actually like and/or need it later,' method. 

"It's gotta be pasta, Frase," he announces, leading the way down the appropriate aisle. "It's quick, easy, and doesn't have fish in it." 

"As you wish, Ray," I answer, following in his wake. 

"So why," he says, 30 seconds later, "are there so many types of pasta? It all tastes the same in the end." 

"I can't imagine, Ray," I say quietly, ignoring the suspicious glance he shoots my way. 

"Are you gonna make some smart remark now?" he asks, and I shake my head meekly. 

He grunts and turns back to the shelves, reaching out and grabbing the first packet he sees. 

"'Course I don't know why we're going to all this trouble," he says. "It's only Turnbull." 

"Ray!" I say. "That's not fair. You know that he'd make an effort if he were hosting a dinner." 

"You're right, you're right," he says, hanging his head in mock shame. "That was mean." He looks up at me and smirks. "Bet he doesn't drink, does he?" 

"Just the obligatory toast, Ray," I reply. "But don't let that stop you getting some beer for yourself." 

"Nah," he says. "You'll just do that tutting thing and then I'll feel guilty about drinking." He sighs. "This is gonna be wild, ain't it? Two Mounties, me and no alcohol. We'll have the neighbours hammering on the door, demanding to be allowed in so that they can join in our wild games of Scrabble." 

"You're not helping, you know," I snap. "I just opened my mouth and the invitation came out. We've just got to make the best of it." 

He looks at me, surprised at my tone, and puts out a conciliatory hand, briefly squeezing my forearm. 

"C'mon," he says. "Let's finish this, okay?" 

* * *

When we reach the apartment, we're greeted by Diefenbaker, legs very definitely crossed, so I take him out for a walk leaving Ray to deal with the groceries. 

When I return, Ray is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating yogurt straight out of the carton. I think about admonishing him, but he looks up at me and licks his finger in such a provocative way that all coherent thought vanishes. 

"Want some?" he says. I carefully hang up my jacket before walking over to join him. I slowly take his finger into my mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of the yogurt over that taste which is uniquely Ray. 

"Oh, that's nice," he says softly, and I nod in agreement, not releasing his finger. Instead I reach out and take the carton from him, dipping my own finger in it, and offering it to him. He licks my finger briefly and then pulls away, something more adventurous very obviously on his mind. 

He dips his hand into the yogurt carton and smiles at me. 

"Lose the layers," he says, nodding at my shirt. I do as he says, standing bare chested as he comes towards me. I know what he's going to do, but I still start at the coldness of the yogurt against my skin. 

He grins at me, then lowers his head and begins to lick me clean, as thoroughly as any cat. The feel of his tongue against my chest is incredibly erotic, and I can't help groaning a little as I lean back against the kitchen counter. 

Yogurt carton still firmly clutched in one hand, he slides to his knees in front of me and begins to unfasten the zip of my jeans. He clucks when the growing constriction behind my zip makes it impossible for him to achieve the task one handed, and he has to relinquish his hold on his precious foodstuff. 

Pulling my jeans and boxers only as far as he has to, he takes my cock in one hand and strokes it a few times. I groan again, and buck against his grip, but a warning squeeze makes me stop. 

I look down in time to see the tip of his tongue emerge from between his lips. I have to look away again; I know what that tongue does to me, and if I watch it in action, then Ray will have something approaching 20 seconds of fun. 

He gently teases the head of my cock with his tongue, and I can feel myself growing harder with each soft touch. I reach down and touch the top of Ray's head, but he pulls away. I understand, and move my hand away again, clutching the kitchen counter instead. 

I jump as my cock is suddenly surrounded by moisture, cold and sticky, but it soon warms up, and is followed by the familiar sensation of Ray's mouth on me. He puts his hands on my stomach, pressing in counterpoint to his sucking, and the feeling is so erotic, so _intimate_ , that I take over the rhythm, and thrust into his mouth, unable to stop myself. 

Reacting to that, Ray begins to suck harder, raising himself up on his knees. Both hands reach round and clasp my buttocks, forcing me even deeper into his mouth. I can feel my thighs trembling with the effort of staying on my feet; it may be that the kitchen counter is holding me up rather than my legs. 

I can feel the head of my cock deep in Ray's throat, the muscles moving convulsively to make room for it, and some part of me wants to ram myself still deeper, until there's nothing between us, not even air. 

My orgasm hits, beginning somewhere in my toes and working its way up, and I'm dimly aware that I'm making a most indecorous grunting sound as I spill into Ray's mouth. I feel his throat working again as he swallows everything. 

I slide down the cabinet and onto the floor, completely unable to stand, and Ray makes room for me. Somehow in all this, he's managed to open his own jeans, and he takes my hand, putting it on his hard, weeping cock. He thrusts once, twice, and then I feel the warmth spilling over my fingers, and he's gasping my name, face pressed into the crook of my neck. 

We lie together, not speaking, for a long time. Finally Ray stirs against me, and raises his head. 

"We gotta get cleaned up," he says, a little hoarsely, and my stomach jumps when I realise that I'm responsible for him sounding like that. 

"We do," I agree. "And we have to think of a dessert which doesn't involve yogurt." 

He smiles, and then he begins to laugh, collapsing weakly against me. 

It's another 10 minutes before we can move. 

* * *

The knock on the door makes both of us start slightly, and look at each other. 

"You go," we both say simultaneously, followed by, "No, you go." 

Since we're in danger of turning this into something of a farce, I push Ray towards the kitchen, and go and open the door. 

Turnbull looks shiny. He's definitely scrubbed every inch of skin until it's gleaming and pink; it looks very painful. 

"Good evening, Constable," he says. "I hope I'm not too early?" 

"Not at all, Turnbull," I say, standing aside so that he can enter the apartment. "Just on time." 

"Colour me amazed," mutters Ray, coming out of the kitchen. "Hi, Turnbull. Make yourself at home." 

"Good evening, Detective," says Turnbull, perching on the very edge of the chair. 

"I guess you should call me Ray, else we're gonna have a real formal evening," says Ray. "Do you have a first name?" 

"Indeed I do. Renfield." 

The look on Ray's face is something I will treasure for a long time. 

"No!" he finally exclaims. "Don't you Canadians have normal names?" I can see him turning this new discovery over in his mind, then he shakes his head. "I can't," he says. "Do you really mind if I call you Turnbull, like usual?" 

"Not at all, Detective," replies Turnbull. 

"It's Ray." 

"Ray." 

"Right." 

And the first silence of the evening descends. 

"So," I say, a little too heartily, "I hope you're hungry." 

"Indeed I am, Sir," answers Turnbull. "I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this evening." 

"Good, good..." I say. "You could perhaps call me Fraser, or Benton. Just for this evening." 

"I'll try, Sir." 

"That's the ticket." 

"What is?" asks Ray. "What does that mean?" 

"It just means, `good'," I say. 

"Well, why can't you say `good'?" 

"Because I make so many more friends this way," I say. Ray snorts and shakes his head. 

"You want something to drink, Turnbull?" he asks, and we manage to avoid a potential scene. 

* * *

"Can I ask you something, Turnbull?" Ray says, pushing his plate away. The meal has turned out well, and both Ray and Turnbull have begun to relax with each other. In fact, they have taken over most of the conversation, which has been interesting to watch. 

"Of course, Det - Ray," answers Turnbull. 

"Okay, here goes. You told Fraser you had one good friend. Who is it? We never see you with friends, you never mention anyone." He pauses. "Sorry. Am I being nosy? I'd just like to know." 

"No, you're not being nosy," replies Turnbull. "I do have one good friend, but she lives in the Territories and I haven't seen her in a long time." 

"Do you miss her?" I ask, standing up and gathering the plates together. 

"Every day," he answers simply, and Ray and I look at each other. It's easy to forget how much it hurts to be alone. 

"What about here in Chicago?" asks Ray. "Do you got many friends here?" 

"No," says Turnbull, shaking his head. "I have acquaintances, but I would be lying if I called any of them friends." 

From my position in the kitchen, I see Turnbull reach out and cover Ray's hand with his own. Ray starts a little, but doesn't move away. Turnbull, by contrast, turns pink and glares at his hand as if it has developed a mind of its own. 

"Turnbull, you know that I'm with Frase, right?" Ray seems a little hesitant. 

"Of course, Detective," answers Turnbull, looking a little surprised. 

"No, I mean _with_. Forever, till death," Ray emphasises, casting a quick glance my way. I smile, but don't speak, don't show my feelings. 

"Yes, Detective," repeats Turnbull. "I understand." 

"Never to stray?" Ray continues, hammering the point home. "Not with anyone? Not with you?" 

"Detective, may I say something?" asks Turnbull, almost holding his hand up for attention. 

"Sure, of course," says Ray, looking somewhat relieved. 

"When you flirted with me before the Consulate dinner, I felt ... I felt a part of something, which is why I reacted the way I did ...," 

"But, I was just fooling around, that's all..." Ray begins, but Turnbull, daringly, interrupts. 

"Please, Detective, I know. I understand. If I may continue? 

It's not easy being me. I know what people think of me, I know that they laugh at me. I know that you laugh at me." 

"Turnbull, I'm sorry," says Ray, leaning forward over the table. "It's how I am. It's part of me..." 

"Detective, I don't want you." Turnbull speaks with remarkable force, and Ray blinks in surprise. 

"Beg your pardon?" he says. 

"I don't want you," repeats Turnbull. "I don't think I ever really wanted you. What I want is what you have with Constable Fraser. I want friendship. Constable Fraser recently observed that I maintain a solitary lifestyle, and he's right, but it's not through choice." 

I stay silent, feeling inexplicably guilty, as if I owe Turnbull some kind of apology for daring to be happy. 

"You're a bit like Frase, you know," Ray says. "And me. None of us fit, but me and Frase have been lucky. We've found each other. I know it sounds like a dumb thing to say, and I apologise in advance, but you will find someone." 

"I hope you're right, Detective, I really do," says Turnbull, and there's sadness in his voice, and a tone I've never heard before from him; a tone of such aching loneliness that I find myself reaching for Ray instinctively. Ray looks at me briefly and squeezes my hand, but then turns his attention back to Turnbull. 

"My name's Ray," he says. "And you do have friends. You have me. You have Fraser. And whenever you want, you're welcome here, you know that. We'll find your piece of the puzzle, wait and see." 

"Thank you, Det... Ray," says Turnbull. He looks at me. "And thank you, too, Constable. I'm a lucky man to have such friends." 

"Okay," says Ray, leaning back. "Okay." 

* * *

"You're a good man, Ray Kowalski," I say later, as we tidy the apartment. 

"Huh?" he says. "What d'you mean?" 

"What I say. You're a good man." I pause and then take a deep breath. I want to tell him that I love him, that I'm proud of him, but I still have problems with such intimacy. 

He puts down the plates he was carrying into the kitchen and comes to me, putting his hands on my shoulders and walking me backwards until I'm against the wall. 

"You made me what I am, Frase. I love you, you know that?" 

"Yes, Ray, I know," I reply, and he nods. 

"Nothing else matters, then," he says. "Turnbull, the Ice Queen, bad guys ... none of it matters, Frase. _We_ matter. Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Ray," I say again. 

And I do. I really think I do understand. 

The End 

* * *

End


End file.
